


Mistaken Identity

by Celticgal1041



Series: Mistakes [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-01 05:23:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4007485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticgal1041/pseuds/Celticgal1041
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Ah, yes,” Aramis gave a small nod, taking a drink of his wine to soothe his smoke-ravaged throat. “It was a case of mistaken identity."  Takes place near the end of season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was distracted from the writing of my longer fic by a request from a long-time reader who kindly informed me that it would be wonderful if I could start posting a new story on her birthday (today). Since I knew my other fic wouldn't be ready in time, I offered her a shorter Aramis-focused story instead, which she graciously agreed to - this is the result. So, for her and anyone else celebrating a birthday, I wish you all the best and hope you enjoy this fic.

Aramis wondered how it was possible that such a simple task had gone so incredibly wrong. He and the others had been deployed to Savoy, a location that was most definitely far from his favorite place to be, but a responsibility he’d accepted out of necessity as part of his role as a Musketeer. Despite the previous uneasiness between the King and the Duke, relations had returned to a degree of quiet civility, the two leaders capable of being cordial and polite if not necessarily friends. Of course, friendship would have been a difficult state to achieve, given the King’s obvious distaste for the Duke as well as the condescending view he held of Savoy, believing that the province was an essential but unfortunate inconvenience. 

 

When the Duke of Savoy had sent word of Spanish activity within its borders, viewed as a requisite step to declaring war, the King had no choice but to act and send a small scouting party to the area to ferret out the truth of the rumours. Given that Savoy was considered its own sovereign territory, the Musketeers were ordered to complete their mission without the protection of their uniforms, instead adopting the clothing of mercenaries for hire, needing some excuse to continue carrying their weapons.

 

Their journey to Savoy had been blessedly uneventful, although Porthos was not fooled into thinking his friend hadn’t suffered from the violent memories of his last ill-fated visit to the area. While Aramis would not admit it, he’d been grateful to find Porthos at his side each time he’d escaped from the grips of his nightmares, each dream conjuring new and horrifically creative interpretations of the events, leaving him covered in sweat and gasping for breath. Porthos had been a solid presence, grounding him with a touch on his shoulder or his back, or pulling him into a wordless embrace when tears leaked unchecked from his eyes. The larger man never asked about the dreams but Aramis knew his friend would listen if he ever desired to share any of his nighttime torments.

 

The resulting lack of sleep had made Aramis’ brain fuzzy and his limbs slow, each movement taking more energy than he seemed to have available as each subsequent night turned into day and they travelled further from home. The Spaniard had been confident that things would improve once they’d arrived in Turin, Savoy’s capital, but fate had other plans and they fell to an attack a day’s ride from the city. The group that had assaulted them was fortunately not well-trained nor organized, but what they lacked in these areas they more than made up for in exuberance and numbers, forcing the Musketeers to face odds that were three to one against them.

 

Adrenaline from the surprise of the attack fueled Aramis’ leaden limbs and gave him the strength he needed to fight at his brothers’ sides, first using his superior shooting skills to reduce the numbers facing them by two and then wading in with his blade. As he engaged his first opponent, a man he’d managed to unseat from his horse, Aramis had a moment to check on his friends, confirming that they’d all dismounted and were embroiled in their own duels. A man came flinging past, Aramis barely able to side-step to avoid being felled by his passing, and a look to the side showed Porthos grinning in glee, obviously the cause of the bandits’ misfortune.

 

The Spaniard gave a slight shake of his head accompanied by the ghost of a smile as he shared his friend’s joy at being involved in battle, his blood singing and his senses sharp as the thrill of the fight coursed through his veins. The feeling carried him forward to victory against two of the men, and he paused for a moment as he dispatched the second, taking another look around to confirm that the others were still faring well.

 

Their odds had improved significantly, their skills nearly having defeated the group. Athos was off to one side keeping a man at bay with his sword, his moves almost leisurely in nature and Aramis wondered if the older man was simply toying with his opponent. On his other side, Porthos was in the process of disarming his attacker, using his main gauche to deftly pull the man’s blade from his hand before stepping in close to land a killing strike. Aramis’ head swivelled for a moment, seeking their youngest, fear sparking fast and bright and causing his breath to hitch as he turned around to expand his line of sight. Almost directly behind him but at least 20 metres away was the Gascon, down on his hands and knees, his head hanging between his shoulders while an armed man stood above him, preparing to deliver a final, lethal blow.

 

“No!” Aramis vaguely recognized the harsh scream as belonging to him as he thundered across the distance that separated him from d’Artagnan. Porthos’ head snapped up to catch the marksman’s wild dash, while Athos plunged his blade into his attacker’s chest, freeing him up to chase after his friend, uncertain about the cause of his distress but certain that it could be nothing good.

 

As the bandit next to d’Artagnan lifted his main gauche, planning to drive it through the young man’s bowed back, Aramis charged at the man, driving his shoulder into the outlaw’s chest. The move had the desired effect, saving the Gascon and removing the threat to his person. As Aramis lay on the ground, next to the stunned form of the bandit, he began to feel a throbbing in his upper arm, the sensation escalating quickly as he became aware of it. He moaned lowly, not even realizing he’d done so, as Porthos dropped to his side, placing a warm hand on the medic’s chest. “Lay still, Aramis, we’ll have you sorted in no time.”

 

The pain in his arm seemed to be spreading, sending a fiery ache through his shoulder and pulsing into his back and he couldn’t help but let out another groan at the misery that seemed to be expanding along his left side. “Just try to relax, ‘Mis; it’ll only hurt more if you tense up,” Porthos soothed. Grudgingly, he left the medic’s side for a moment to check on the bandit that Aramis had knocked over, surprised when he found the man unmoving, his eyes closed.

 

Standing, he grabbed the man’s arm in order to pull him further away from his friend, discovering, as he did so, a large pool of blood on the ground where the outlaw’s head had rested. Stopping, he pressed a hand to the man’s throat, feeling a faint thrum beneath his fingertips, looking again at the spot where the man had fallen and at the jagged rock that had impacted with the back of the man’s head. A quick examination revealed an unnatural softness at the back of the man’s skull, and Porthos was certain that the bandit would not be long for this world. Rising, he finished moving the man further away, confident that the outlaw would not cause them any more trouble, before returning to Aramis’ side.  

 

Athos was kneeling next to a partially coherent d’Artagnan, the young man still somewhat dazed from the blow he’d taken to the head, which had resulted in his vulnerable position. The older man had placed a hand on the back of the young man’s neck as he bent low, speaking to the boy to gauge his level of awareness and determine how badly he was injured. Moments later, d’Artagnan shook his head weakly, the action pulling a moan from his throat as Athos gently eased him down to one side, so he could sit on the ground as he nursed his sore head.

 

Porthos watched all of this, his eyes darting between the two men and Aramis, the latter still laying on the ground, his breathing beginning to quicken and his face covered in a sheen of sweat. Aramis seemed unaware of the injury he’d suffered, and the larger man was completely out of his depth in trying to deal with it, his impatience growing as he waited for Athos’ assistance. Finally, Athos seemed satisfied that the Gascon was alright and in no danger of dying on them, and he scooted over to Aramis’ other side, his expression conveying the extent of his concern as he got his first look at the Spaniard’s wound.

 

The outlaw’s blade had been prevented from stabbing d’Artagnan and had instead been driven into Aramis’ shoulder, entering at the front just beneath his collarbone, becoming lodged and protruding grotesquely from the muscle. The wound was bleeding sluggishly, but it was hard to determine whether the dagger had gone all the way through and Athos reached a hand forward to steady the blade. “I need you to turn him and check his back for an exit wound.”

 

Porthos gave a short nod, already despising the additional pain they were about to cause their friend, but recognizing the wisdom of the older man’s suggestion. As gently as he could, Porthos positioned his hands beneath the medic’s shoulder and lifted, rolling him towards Athos as the older man stabilized the knife. The sound that emerged from Aramis at the motion was low and keening, more akin to a wounded animal than a grown man, and Porthos had to bite his lip hard as he forced himself to continue, shifting his friend until he could see the man’s back. Releasing a sigh of relief he looked back at Athos and shook his head; the blade had not pierced Aramis’ back, and based on the point of entry, it had been stopped by the Spaniard’s shoulder blade. With infinite care, Porthos laid his friend back down onto his back, removing trembling hands at the agony he’d unintentionally caused.

 

Aramis panted for breath now, his eyes tightly closed as he tried to escape the thrum of pain that coursed from the tips of his fingers to the base of his neck, tendrils of liquid fire seemingly dancing through his veins. As his eyes fluttered open, he could vaguely make out the shape of his friend as he begged, “Please, make it stop.” The plea was heart wrenching and all the worse because it was so unlike the Spaniard, normally stoically ignoring all but the worst injuries.

 

“We need to pull it out,” Porthos hissed at Athos, unwilling to allow Aramis to continue suffering.

 

Athos gave a tilt of his head in agreement as he pushed to his feet, “Let me get the brandy and bandages first.”

 

The brandy was an exceptionally strong spirit, chosen by Aramis specifically for its strength which would hopefully aid the man in banishing some of the agony that gripped him. Athos quickly removed both items from the medic’s saddlebags before settling down again at his friend’s side, sparing a quick glance at d’Artagnan who was still holding his head with one hand but watching them with wide eyes as he waited to see the drama unfold.

 

Offering the bottle to Porthos, Athos again stabilized the blade, the larger man moving immediately to lift Aramis’ head up and tip the bottle to the man’s lips. Aramis drank as though he was a man dying in the desert, choking on a swallow almost at once, prompting Porthos to pull the liquid away. The medic coughed weakly, grimacing at the hot spike of pain in his shoulder as the larger man soothed, “Easy, Aramis, you’ve got to go slow. I know it hurts, but chokin’ ain’t gonna make you feel any better.”

 

When the medic had caught his breath, Porthos helped him drink again, allowing him several mouthfuls before pulling it away. Aramis’ eyes rolled up to his friend’s, his brown orbs already glazed with pain and blood loss, as he slurred, “Need to get it out.”

 

Porthos nodded kindly, his hand finding Aramis’ and gripping it tightly, “We know, ‘Mis; we’re gonna take care of it now.” Placing the bottle on the ground beside him, he moved his free hand to the medic’s chest, preparing to hold him down while Athos pulled the dagger free.

 

Standing, the older man gripped the handle tightly, knowing well how the muscle and skin around the blade would try to hold it in place. He nodded to Porthos, the large man returning it to indicate his readiness, and then pulled forcefully, driving a cry of pain from Aramis as the steel slid free.

 

Porthos leaned closer to the medic as the man gasped around the pain, his eyes rolling as consciousness threatened to flee. Both Athos and Porthos wished Aramis would let go, leaving him unaware of what they would need to do next, but the Spaniard was stubborn and his eyes remained half-open. Unable to wait any longer for their friend to lose awareness, Athos reached for the bottle and tipped it over the wound, causing Aramis to fight against Porthos’ hold as he tried to get away from the sharp, burning liquid.

 

Aramis’ head was lolling by the time they’d finished cleaning and firmly bandaging the wound, the man determinedly staying awake as he alternated between panting and whimpering in pain. Athos and Porthos felt nearly as wrung out as their friend, the act of tending to the man just as agonizing as the anguish they’d caused him. Athos glanced once more at d’Artagnan, gauging his ability to ride as he considered their options.

 

They needed to find shelter, quickly; the bandaging job he’d done on Aramis’ shoulder was a temporary measure at best and the wound needed to be stitched. More importantly, the Spaniard would need somewhere to recover, preferably somewhere that included a bed and freshly cooked food. As Athos considered their situation, he scowled in disgust at the limited options that presented themselves; Aramis would have no choice but to ride and hopefully they would find somewhere to care for him before the man bled out.

 

As if sensing his thoughts, Porthos gave a slow nod, “There’s no other choice, Athos, and that’s not your fault. Why don’t you repack everything and check on our young Gascon. When you’re done, you can help me get Aramis up on the horse; he’ll be riding with me.”

 

As quickly as that they were decided and Athos rose to repack the remaining medical supplies and then detoured to d’Artagnan’s side, the young man oddly silent and still staring resolutely at Aramis as if expecting the man to disappear if he looked away. “d’Artagnan,” Athos spoke lowly as he crouched next to the boy. “How are you feeling?”

 

“I’m fine,” the Gascon replied listlessly, his gaze never wavering from the medic’s still form.

 

Athos swallowed the sigh of frustration that threatened at the young man’s predictable response. “I need you to be honest with me, d’Artagnan. Are you able to ride?”

 

The Gascon’s eyes met Athos’ and the older man could see the fear reflected there, the young man obviously very concerned about their fourth. “Will he be alright?”

 

Athos dropped his head for a moment before answering. Aramis’ wound was grave and his survival was still in doubt; as much as the older man hated to admit it, there was little more they’d be able to do for him once they’d closed the wound. Meeting d’Artagnan’s gaze, he said, “The quicker we move from here, the better his chances become.”

 

d’Artagnan began to nod but was reminded of the folly of that action when the throb in his head swelled, and he spoke instead, “I can ride.” He knew it wouldn’t be pretty but was confident that he could stay in the saddle; no matter how difficult, he would not be a hindrance to them that delayed Aramis getting the care he needed.

 

Standing, Athos gripped the Gascon’s bicep and pulled him gently to his feet, helping him over to his horse and standing nearby as he watched the young man mount. When he was done, d’Artagnan was several shades paler but he seemed stable enough in his seat. Patting the young man’s thigh, Athos turned away and knelt next to Aramis, seeing the medic’s eyes closed. Glancing at Porthos, the larger man confirmed, “Finally passed out, stubborn fool. Like he needed to be awake through all that butchery on his shoulder.” While the words sounded angry, Athos knew that they were fueled by worry, a sentiment he wholeheartedly shared with the larger man.

 

Together, the two men managed to lift Aramis to his feet, Athos ducking under one shoulder while Porthos did his best to assist the insensate man with an arm around his waist. It was awkward and slow, but they eventually managed to get Aramis onto a horse, Porthos seated behind the injured man, providing support for the medic’s back and ensuring he would not fall. With a last look around their impromptu battleground, Athos pulled himself into the saddle and nudged his horse into motion, d’Artagnan falling in behind him, while Porthos and Aramis took up the rear. Silently, Athos offered up a prayer that they would soon find somewhere to stop.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Splitting their numbers was less than ideal, especially since they had no idea what they would find in the capital city, but the fact was that Aramis would be unable to ride, even assuming that his wound healed well and he did not take a fever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely reaction to this story and for the comments and kudos. A little bit of comfort ahead for our boys.

The village they found an hour later was nothing more than a collection of a dozen houses, a small church and a tavern; fortunately, the latter doubled as an inn and they had a few small rooms for rent on the upper floor. As he dismounted, Athos cast an appraising eye over d’Artagnan, deciding that the young man was steady enough that he wouldn’t fall off his horse. A glance in Porthos’ direction confirmed that the larger man would wait for him to come back, and Athos turned and made his way inside to secure a room.

 

When he returned, he found d’Artagnan standing beside his horse, leaning gently against its side to ward off the occasional swaying of the ground beneath his feet. With a quiet sigh, Athos moved to Porthos’ side and the larger man lowered the unconscious Spaniard down to him, following quickly afterward and taking a portion of Aramis’ weight. Athos sent a hesitant look at the Gascon, but the younger man was coming toward them and reaching for the reins. “I’ll take care of the horses,” he said. The older man paused uncertainly and d’Artagnan continued, “I’ll be fine, Athos. Go, take care of Aramis. If I’m not up by the time you’re done, come look for me.” His last words were spoken with a hint of a grin and Athos shook his head at the boy’s cheekiness, but did as he’d suggested.

 

The two men manhandled their friend up the narrow set of stairs, Porthos kicking open the door to their room since his hands were full of insensate Spaniard. They lowered the injured man on the bed, Porthos standing up immediately and turning back toward the door, “I’ll go get the supplies.” Athos gave a short nod of acknowledgement and began to work Aramis out of his doublet and shirt, the medic still unaware although he moaned softly when his shoulder was jostled. The bandage they’d applied earlier was spotted with blood and, although the sight was worrying, Athos knew it could be far worse given that the wound was still open.

 

Rather than making Aramis suffer more pain, Athos slid his dagger carefully beneath the bandages and cut through them, letting them fall apart and expose the stab wound. As soon as the pressure was released, blood began to bubble slowly forth and the older man cursed his folly at not having waited for Porthos to return before he’d removed the bandage. With a gentle tug, he pulled the soiled linen free and pressed it against the wound to slow the bleeding. The act brought another low moan from Aramis as he weakly tossed his head to one side, likely in an attempt to escape the ache that plagued him even in unconsciousness.

 

“I’m sorry, my friend, I know it hurts,” Athos whispered softly, remorseful at the pain they’d still have to inflict on him.

 

He could hear the thundering steps outside announcing Porthos’ arrival and he looked up at the larger man’s entrance. Porthos headed directly toward the bed with their saddlebags, asking as he walked, “How is he?”

 

Athos shook his head, “No change, but I’m afraid that won’t last.”

 

Porthos nodded in understanding, the pain of having a raw wound cleaned and stitched not normally something a man could sleep through. “Maybe he won’t wake up.” he said hopefully, but at Athos’ knowing look, he revised his statement. “Yeah, I know, too much to hope for.”

 

Porthos pulled out the supplies they would need, laying everything within arm’s reach and allowing Athos to continue placing pressure on Aramis’ wound until they were ready. When he’d finished, he moved to the other side of the bed, placing his hands on the Spaniard’s shoulder and chest to keep him from moving.

 

When Athos saw the other man’s readiness, he removed the bandaging slowly, letting it drop to the floor next to the bed to be cleaned up later. He reached for the water skin first, not wanting to wait on hot water from the tavern, and poured it over the hole in Aramis’ shoulder, sopping up the liquid with a spare blanket Porthos had placed nearby for exactly that purpose. The medic remained still, his brow creasing but showing no other signs of awareness. With a look toward Porthos, Athos swapped out the water skin for the bottle of brandy and tipped it over the wound. The effect was nearly instantaneous, Aramis jerking under Porthos’ hands as he tried to arch away from the fire in his shoulder.

 

Athos gritted his teeth and kept pouring until he was confident that the wound was clean enough, Porthos nearly folded completely over their friend as he kept a constant pressure on the Spaniard’s upper body, whispering nonsensical words of comfort in his ear. Aramis’ eyes were tightly closed as he shuddered against the pain, panting harshly for breath against the persistent throbbing the spirits had ignited. Athos meticulously cleaned and threaded the needle, taking his time to allow Aramis an opportunity to compose himself. Porthos’ touch had shifted from restraint to comfort and he was now using a wet cloth to tenderly wipe away the sweat from the marksman’s face.

 

When Aramis’ breathing had slowed, he pushed open his eyes, meeting first Porthos’ and then Athos’ eyes in turn, his gaze eventually landing on the needle in the older man’s hand. He groaned and then managed a few breathy words, “I hoped you’d be done that by now.”

 

“In most things you have the devil’s luck,” Athos stated, glancing back to the needle he held, “but not, unfortunately, when you are injured.”

 

Aramis gave a slight nod as he asked, “Something for the pain?”

 

Athos reached for the bottle and passed it to Porthos, the latter helping Aramis lift his head so he could drink. They allowed several swallows, knowing the alcohol would make little difference to the amount of pain their friend would feel, the alcohol’s effects often more mental than physical. When the bottle was pulled away, Aramis looked back at Athos, “Make sure you keep the stitches small and tight.” Athos gave the man a look of incredulity that had the medic huffing out a short laugh, “You know that my looks are my best feature.”

 

At that, Porthos rolled his eyes and Athos suggested dryly, “Perhaps you’d prefer to do them yourself?”

 

Aramis gave a pained grin as he replied, “Normally I would, but just this once, I think I’ll leave the needlework to you.”

 

Athos lifted the needle into Aramis’ line of sight, silently asking the man if he was ready. Aramis took several steadying breaths, closing his eyes and giving a slight nod, squeezing Porthos’ hand which had magically found its way into his. The Spaniard hissed in pain as the needle pierced his skin, and Athos worked quickly to close the hole which, although it was deep, was not particularly wide across. By the time they’d finished, Aramis was nearly gray with pain and Porthos helped him have another drink of brandy as Athos cleaned up their medical supplies. The medic was beginning to lose the battle with consciousness and Porthos soothed him quietly, “Rest, Aramis, we’ll be here when you wake.”

 

Athos took in the scene as he stood from the chair, wiping away the last of the blood from his hands. “I’m going to go check on d’Artagnan.” Porthos made to rise to give the man a hand, but Athos waved him back, noting with a faint smile that Aramis still held his friend’s hand. “I can manage.”

 

Porthos gave a nod of thanks as he asked, “You get a second room?” The older man gave a tilt of his head and the large man continued, “I’ll sit with Aramis for a bit. Get some rest and you can relieve me later.” Another head nod had Athos exiting the room, taking care to close the door softly so he didn’t disturb their friend’s sleep.

 

Athos made his way down to the stables and was relieved when he saw d’Artagnan still standing, his arm holding a brush to one of their horses. As he approached, he frowned, not seeing any motion from the young man and it dawned on him that the Gascon was not grooming the horse but leaning against him. With a soft curse, he sped up, calling out to the boy moments before placing a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “d’Artagnan, are you alright?”

 

The Gascon lifted his head from where it lay on the horse’s neck, offering a rueful grin as he said, “Just got dizzy for a second.”

 

Athos frowned at the admission, noting that the other horses looked like they’d all been taken care of and d’Artagnan had been just finishing with the last one. Removing the brush from the young man’s hand, Athos kept his other hand on the Gascon’s back as he guided him away. “Come, I think it’s time for you to go inside.”

 

It was a testament to how poorly the boy was feeling that he didn’t even argue and simply fell into step with Athos who placed the brush on a shelf as they made their way outside. The older man kept d’Artagnan in front of him, afraid that a misstep on the stairs could result in further injury; as it was, he kept his hands close to the Gascon’s back, lest he needed to be caught. Athos opened the door to the room, leading the young man to the bed, and d’Artagnan looked around in confusion, “Where’s Aramis?”

 

“Across the hall,” Athos motioned with his head. “I think tonight, you both need your own beds.” d’Artagnan began to nod, stopping abruptly when it rattled his fragile skull, not even thinking to ask where Athos and Porthos would sleep since the room only held the single bed. Now that he’d been given permission to rest, d’Artagnan’s energy and coordination seemed to have fled and he sat at the side of the bed, trying to unclasp his doublet with thick fingers that were too clumsy to accomplish the simple task.

 

Brushing the Gascon’s hands away, Athos sat next to him and said, “Let me do that.”

 

When the doublet had been removed, Athos moved next to d’Artagnan’s boots and in minutes the boy was down to his braies, tucked in comfortably under the woolen blanket. As Athos looked down at him, wondering at how young he looked at rest, d’Artagnan surprised him by opening his heavy eyes as he slurred, “’Mis alright?”

 

Athos’ lips quirked in silent amusement as he assured the young man, “Fine, he’s resting in the other room with Porthos.”

 

The answer was apparently satisfactory as the boy’s eyes closed again and his breathing quickly evened out in sleep. Athos removed his own doublet as he settled into a chair, happy to have a few minutes of peace as he reflected on how quickly their luck had turned. The men who’d attacked had been sloppy and disorganized, likely simple bandits who’d believed that they would be easy prey due to their small number. Although they’d managed to defeat the men, the delay was inconvenient and the injuries sustained more than a little troubling.

 

Their mission in Savoy was of some urgency, but Aramis’ wound suggested a longer recovery time than their current objective would permit. Athos’ gaze landed on the Gascon’s sleeping face as he considered the boy’s condition next, relatively certain that the young man would be fine when he awoke, leaving them with only one real option: d’Artagnan and Aramis would have to be left behind so the young man could tend to the marksman. Splitting their numbers was less than ideal, especially since they had no idea what they would find in the capital city, but the fact was that Aramis would be unable to ride, even assuming that his wound healed well and he did not take a fever.

 

Athos scrubbed a hand across his face as he considered Porthos’ reaction to the news; the man would be understandably upset and yet he would agree that it was the only course of action open to them. d’Artagnan, too, would protest, claiming he was fine and that it should be one of them who stayed behind, but with only two proceeding, it would need to be their two strongest, a title that the Gascon could not currently hope to claim. Having reached his decision, Athos cast another quick look at the young man, confirming that he was still resting peacefully and making a note to clean the blood off his temple later. He slipped carefully out of the room; they needed to eat something and then he would sleep for a few hours, before taking Porthos’ place at Aramis’ side. 

* * *

Porthos was happily surprised by Athos’ appearance, the older man bearing a tray of food and wine which he set on the small table. The larger man managed to gently extricate himself from Aramis’ loose grip and brought his chair back to the table, sitting across from Athos as the man laid out the food he’d brought. Porthos nodded appreciatively, his mouth watering at the smell of the stew, dipping his spoon in immediately to savour the first bite. Once he’d chewed and swallowed he asked, “How’s the boy?”

 

Athos finished a bite before answering, “Fast asleep. He won’t admit it, but that blow to the head is paining him.”

 

Porthos gave a tilt of his head in understanding, offering a small grin as he said, “At least his hard skull served him well.” His expression turning serious, he continued, “But he’ll be alright?”

 

Athos gave a nod in reply, “I expect he’ll feel much better after a good night’s sleep. Well enough to watch over Aramis.” He let the words hang between them waiting for Porthos’ response.

 

To the larger man’s credit, he considered Athos’ statement, taking several bites of his food before answering, “I know it’s the best way, but I can’t say I like it.”

 

Athos’ lips quirked in a faint smile of appreciation at the fact that Porthos had already been thinking about their situation as well, having reached the same unhappy conclusion. “There’s little choice, I’m afraid,” Athos stated, his eyes drifting to Aramis’ sleeping form.

 

Catching the look, Porthos informed him, “He’s resting quietly. I’ll make up a pain draught from Aramis’ supplies for when he wakes, but there’s not much else to do for now.”

 

Athos gave a nod of agreement, hating the fact that they would have no choice but to depart the following day, leaving their two friends behind, one of whose fate was still uncertain, since infection often had a habit of appearing suddenly and spreading quickly.

 

“d’Artagnan?” Porthos asked, his voice pulling Athos’ attention back from his musings.

 

“Will be unhappy and determined to prove that he’s fit to ride,” Athos replied, knowing well how poorly the Gascon behaved when he had to stay behind.

 

Porthos snorted as he said, “He’ll have the harder job of it, especially once Aramis starts feelin’ better.” Both men were well-versed with the Spaniard’s propensity to play down his injuries, attempting to flee his sick bed far before his body was actually ready to do so.

 

The two finished their meal, washing the food down with the bottle of wine Athos had brought. Normally, the older man would continue drinking, but he needed to have his wits about him later so he kept himself to only two glasses. When they’d finished, Porthos motioned toward the other room, “Go, get some sleep and come relieve me in a few hours.” They would need to watch Aramis closely for any signs of fever and do their best to get water into him when they could. As a result, the man would need someone at his side around the clock, and the two were determined that d’Artagnan would have at least the one full night of rest to recover from his own injury before the full responsibility for Aramis’ care fell to him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Be safe, take care of yourselves, don’t worry about us.” It was all unspoken but clearly communicated through their actions as the two men rode away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the continued interest in this story. A little more comfort for our boys before their circumstances shift in the next chapter. Hope you enjoy!

d’Artagnan had woken once in the night and it had happily coincided with Athos’ rising from the pallet he’d made on the floor so the older man ensured the young man had a cup each of broth and water before he tiredly returned to sleep. At that point, Athos and Porthos had traded spots, Aramis having remained asleep so far, his skin warm, but not overly so, suggesting no imminent signs of infection were present.

 

The rising sun found both men back in Aramis’ room sharing breakfast. They would wait a while longer, allowing the Gascon to rest, and then would make their final checks of both their friends before setting out toward Turin. It was as they were eating that Aramis showed the first signs of waking, a low moan pushing forth from his chest as his head rolled weakly on the pillow. Within seconds, both men were at his side, Porthos sitting at the edge of the bed with a warm hand on the Spaniard’s cheek, pleased to find his skin still cool to the touch. “Aramis, open your eyes for me,” Porthos urged, his gaze firmly on his friend’s face.

 

Aramis could hear the voice calling to him but his body felt leaden, his limbs weighed down and his lids refusing to open. At the same time, he could feel an ache in his shoulder and, once he became aware of it, was unable to ignore the throbbing that seemed to grow in intensity. He groaned again in response, his brow furrowing with pain, wishing he could escape back into darkness but the agony pulling him to the light instead. With a force of will, he managed to open his eyes and Porthos grinned at the sight. “There you are. It’s good to see you awake.”

 

Aramis blinked fuzzily up at his friend, the nerve endings in his shoulder sparking unhappily with liquid fire. “Hurts,” he managed to breathe out and he thought Porthos might have nodded. Moments later he found his head lifted slightly and a cup pressed to his lips. He opened automatically, recognizing the bitter taste of a pain draught as the liquid flowed across his tongue. He obediently drained the cup, savouring the relief that the drink would bring before closing his eyes and focusing on his breathing as he waited for the pain to subside. As the fire in his shoulder dulled, he became aware of a hand on his chest and another on his uninjured shoulder, and he forced his eyes open once more.

 

His lips turned up in a weak smile as he was met with the faces of his brothers, both men looking down at him with concern in their eyes, sitting on opposite sides of his bed. Their expressions relaxed to see him awake and he could hear Porthos sigh as some of the tension leaked from his body. “How long?” he asked in a reedy voice, surprised at how weak he sounded.

 

“Nearly a day since you were hurt and you’ve slept all night,” Athos replied.

 

Aramis gave a small nod, unsurprised at the time that had passed given what he could recall of his injury. Frowning, he questioned, “d’Artagnan?”

 

“Luckily he’s got a hard head,” Porthos answered and Aramis rolled his head to look at him. “He’s still sleeping but he should be fine.”

 

“Good,” the Spaniard breathed out. His mind was still foggy, now doubly so with the pain draught he’d consumed, but there was something more pulling at his thoughts. “Mission?”

 

Athos and Porthos traded uncomfortable looks and Aramis knew he was about to hear something he wouldn’t like. “Aramis, we’re in Savoy,” Athos began, watching for any indication that the man remembered the details of their mission. As the Spaniard’s face lightened with memory, Athos continued, “There is some urgency for us to reach Turin.”

 

Aramis lifted a shaky hand, managing to place it on Athos’ thigh, “It’s alright; you have to go.”

 

Athos gave a slow nod, the remorse of his decision clear in his face. From the other side of the bed, Porthos spoke, “d’Artagnan will stay with you. We shouldn’t be more than a few days and hopefully you’ll be ready to ride by then.”

 

Aramis gave a slight nod, doing his best to offer a ghost of a smile although he wasn’t sure if he’d really managed it. “We’ll be fine.” He knew the men would not have reached the decision lightly and, although he was no fan of the idea of remaining behind while his friends were in harm’s way, he understood that duty dictated they must do what they could to complete their mission. “Be safe,” he said, catching each man’s eye in turn and holding their gaze until they nodded.

 

Porthos gave Aramis’ arm a squeeze as he said in response, “Don’t worry the boy. Stay in bed and get better so you’re fit to leave when we return.”

 

Aramis’ eyes sparkled with amusement as he looked back at his friend, “I promise.”

 

Athos gave a similar squeeze to the medic’s other shoulder as he said his good-byes and prepared to leave, “Get well and remain alert. We have no idea if any more of those who attacked us are around.” 

 

Aramis gave a tilt of his head and it was becoming clear that his energy was nearly depleted, the blinking of his eyes slowing as the lethargy of his body reasserted itself. Athos rose and nodded to Porthos, the latter man staying at Aramis’ side until he fell asleep, while the older man left to wake d’Artagnan. Once the young man was up and had eaten, the two would pack their things and depart, needing to reach Turin by evening.

 

When he entered the other room, Athos was surprised to find the Gascon sitting at the edge of the bed, his head cradled in both hands as he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “d’Artagnan,” Athos called softly, not wanting to startle the man and unwilling to make his headache any worse. The Gascon lifted his head up, squinting at Athos in obvious pain. “How are you feeling,” the older man asked as he moved forward, sitting down next to the boy.

 

“Like my head’s gonna split open,” d’Artagnan whispered, clearly sensitive to both sound and light.

 

Athos reached for the cloth and basin of water that he’d placed on the small bedside table, wetting the former and placing it gently on the back of the young man’s neck, earning a sigh of contentment. “I’ll mix a pain draught for you,” Athos explained softly, rising and leaving the room, returning a few minutes later with the promised drink. d’Artagnan hadn’t moved at all and the older man handed him the cup, holding onto it for a moment until he trusted that the Gascon had a good grip.

 

The young man grimaced at the taste but finished every drop, obviously just as desperate as Aramis had been for some relief. Athos re-wet the cloth and placed it once more on the nape of d’Artagnan’s neck, allowing the coolness to soothe some of the dull throbbing of his head. After a few minutes passed, the Gascon looked up, Athos relieved to see that some of the pain lines around the young man’s face had eased, “Better?”

 

“Much,” d’Artagnan answered, some color even returning to his face.

 

“Are you hungry?” Athos asked, eager to see the young man eat something proper before departing.

 

The Gascon gave a wince as the thought made his stomach jump, but he knew that sometimes the addition of food made things better rather than worse. “I could eat a little.”

 

“I’ll bring you something,” Athos stated, rising to put his words into action.

 

By the time he returned with a tray of soft bread and a bowl of warm broth, d’Artagnan had managed to complete his morning ablutions, even donning his shirt and breeches although his feet were still bare. Athos placed the tray on the table and the two sat down, the older man pushing the food toward d’Artagnan. As the Gascon slowly ate, he asked, “How’s Aramis?”

 

“Porthos is with him,” Athos replied. “He was awake just before you and has had a draught for the pain. There’s no signs of a fever and we’ll clean and re-dress his wound before we leave.”

 

d’Artagnan looked up sharply at the older man’s words, his eyes narrowing as he processed their meaning. He knew that although it would make for an unpleasant day of riding, he was capable of staying in his seat; Aramis, injured as he was, could not possibly be fit enough to travel. Despite their injuries, they had a pressing mission to complete, and he knew that Athos would do whatever was necessary to fulfill their duties. With a resigned tone, he said, “You’re leaving us here.”

 

Athos gave a tilt of his head in acknowledgement, knowing by the boy’s expression that he’d figured it out. “I don’t want to,” he began until d’Artagnan interrupted.

 

“I know. But the mission has to come first and Aramis won’t be able to travel for several days at least,” the Gascon stated.

 

"Yes," the older man admitted. "We expect to be back in four or five days, at most. That should be enough time for Aramis to recover sufficiently for the journey back to Paris.”

 

d’Artagnan nodded slowly, unwilling to reawake the throbbing in his skull. “It would make more sense for me to move into the same room with him,” he stated, already contemplating the logistics of his responsibilities once the others departed. At Athos’ nod, he continued, “Any chance our attackers’ friends are about?”

 

“It’s always a possibility,” Athos conceded, pleased at the fact that the young man had picked up on the potential threat without having been told.

 

“Definitely one room then,” the Gascon stated. He finished off the last of his meal and prepared to stand as he said, “You need to go.” Athos dipped his head in acknowledgement. “I’ll see to the horses while you tend to Aramis’ wound.”

 

The two rose and parted ways, d’Artagnan handing his few belongings that were in the room to Athos so the older man could deposit them in the other room, before heading outside to prepare the two men’s mounts. Athos knew the young man needed the few minutes alone to come to terms with the fact that they were separating, and there was a certain solace he found in dealing with the horses. Half an hour later, Porthos and Athos had joined d’Artagnan outside, having confirmed that Aramis’ wound was still free from infection and he was resting comfortably. Despite the fact that the Gascon had taken part in caring for his injured friends in the past, both men gave careful instructions about tending to the medic, d’Artagnan barely suppressing the urge to roll his eyes; none of the men wanted to part and sharing this last bit of information with him was one way of delaying the inevitable.

 

When they’d finally finished, Porthos gave d’Artagnan a quick bear hug before mounting his horse, Athos offering a more subdued squeeze to the upper arm that conveyed no less than the larger man’s embrace. _“Be safe, take care of yourselves, don’t worry about us.”_ It was all unspoken but clearly communicated through their actions as the two men rode away. d’Artagnan stood in front of the tavern for a minute after they’d ridden out of sight before sighing and heading back inside to check on his patient.

 

He made his way inside slowly, the stairs still occasionally blurring as he moved, something he was glad Athos and Porthos had been unaware of since they would only worry more; as it was, the two men had more than enough to contend with as they tried to ferret out the truth of the rumours that had reached the King’s ears. d’Artagnan slipped into the room and softly closed the door behind him, crossing the floor to get his first look at his injured friend. He inhaled sharply as he caught sight of Aramis’ pale features, fine lines of pain crinkling the skin around his eyes, even in sleep. His breaths were slow and even and the Gascon could see a portion of the white linen that encircled Aramis’ shoulder, hiding beneath it the wound he’d received while protecting the young man’s life.

 

d’Artagnan felt a pang of remorse at the fact that his friend had been hurt while protecting him and his headache, dulled earlier by the pain draught, notched up again at his guilt. Rubbing a hand across the nape of his neck, the young man missed the eyes that fluttered open and focused on him. “d’Artagnan.” The voice was quiet but unmistakably Aramis’ and the Gascon’s head came up sharply at the sound.

 

“Aramis, you’re awake,” he said, surprised. Aramis offered a small grin at the obvious statement and d’Artagnan couldn’t help but smile back. “How are you feeling? Do you need anything?”

 

Aramis licked his dry lips as he replied, “Water?”

 

“Of course,” d’Artagnan filled the cup next to the bed and helped the marksman drink.

 

Once Aramis’ head was again cradled by the pillow behind him, he asked, “They’ve left?”

 

The Gascon’s face fell a bit as he nodded. “A little while ago.”

 

Aramis’ expression turned knowing, understanding fully how d’Artagnan was likely blaming himself for their current situation, while at the same time worrying for him and for their two absent friends. “It wasn’t your fault, you know.” d’Artagnan’s face flushed at how easily the medic had read his thoughts. “It could have happened to any one of us. Hazards of the job.”

 

The Gascon gave a nod but the look on his face was unchanged. “d’Artagnan, have you ever blamed any one of us for needing help?”

 

d’Artagnan looked confused as he replied, “Of course not. We’re brothers; it’s what we do.”

 

“Exactly. I did nothing more than you would have done, were our positions reversed,” Aramis stated. “I would not change it.”

 

A ghost of a smile appeared on the young man’s face as he countered, “Even knowing you’d get hurt?”

 

“Well, I could do without that, but yes, even knowing I’d get hurt, I would still do the same,” Aramis confirmed. The smile on the young man’s face widened and Aramis knew he’d managed to reach the young man.

 

“Since you insist on getting hurt on my behalf, I suppose the least I can do is take care of you while you heal. Speaking of which, Athos and Porthos left very strict instructions for your care and I’m to get you to eat when you wake. Can you manage some broth?” d’Artagnan asked.

 

Aramis noted the pleading look in the young man’s eyes and gave a small nod. He was not particularly hungry but understood that he needed to eat in order to recover; besides, the boy would only worry if he didn’t. He watched in amusement as d’Artagnan strode from the room to fetch his broth.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If his friends didn’t return soon, it could be his final, lethal regret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great comments and speculation about who will be the first to find trouble. Hope you enjoy this next part.

It had been three days since Athos and Porthos had departed, d’Artagnan watching their forms until they’d disappeared from view. The days had been blessedly quiet with the Gascon falling into a routine of helping Aramis with his needs each morning, before taking both their horses to a pasture just outside the small village to exercise them in the afternoon. The Spaniard spent his time alone sleeping, finding that even though he was staying awake longer, the energy needed to eat and have his wounds tended was enough to tire him out by lunchtime; besides, if he slept during the afternoon, he was spared the young man’s snickers when his eyes began to close around dinnertime.

 

Both men’s spirits were high as d’Artagnan had nearly recovered from his head wound and Aramis was healing well, having been fortunate enough to avoid an infection. Much of the positive outcome was due to the Gascon’s diligence, the medic knew, and he’d made sure to let the boy know what a wonderful job he’d done. d’Artagnan had flushed at the unexpected praise and gave a short nod before turning away to fuss with something, Aramis grinning fondly at the boy’s back, amazed at how much his genuine appreciation of the boy’s efforts had affected him. Now that several days had passed, both men were beginning to look forward to their friends’ return, expecting that the men might be back as early as the following evening.

 

d’Artagnan had just finished cleaning up their breakfast and was preparing to take the tray downstairs, pausing to look at Aramis before he went, “Do you need anything else?”

 

Aramis gave a quick shake of his head, enjoying the feeling of being able to sit up in a chair rather than being confined to bed as he had been initially. When the Gascon had left, Aramis wandered over to pick up his boots, bringing them back with him and carefully pulling them on. His shoulder gave a twinge as he did so, reminding him that although he was feeling better, he was still far from fully recovered. Taking a deeper breath, he stood, bracing his right arm with his left to minimize the pull on his wound. He’d been cooped up in the room since they’d arrived and he’d decided earlier that today would be the day when he would go outside for a short while, even if he only ended up sitting in the sunshine. Before he could cross the room to the door, d’Artagnan appeared, slightly flushed and out of breath after running back to the room.

 

Aramis took one look at the young man’s expression and asked, “d’Artagnan, what’s the matter?”

 

“I overheard some men talking, downstairs in the tavern,” the Gascon began. “They were discussing the bandits who have been all over Savoy, thieving and generally terrorizing people. Apparently, these men have been pretending to be Spanish to confuse the authorities, but they’re not.”

 

The marksman listened to the words spilling from the young man’s mouth, a confused expression on his face. “But, how could they possibly know that the men aren’t really Spanish?”

 

“Said they suffered a loss recently, when several of their men were killed,” d’Artagnan stated.

 

“The group that attacked us?” Aramis asked, the Gascon nodding in reply.

 

“The location fits. One of the men we killed was the cousin of the two talking downstairs,” the young man continued. I made some discreet enquiries of the bartender and confirmed that the men I overheard are both locals, with families scattered all over Savoy. There are no Spanish here, Aramis.” d’Artagnan wore a proud grin on his face as he shared the revelation with his friend.

 

“Then there is no need for us to stay,” the marksman concluded, the young man already nodding in agreement. He fell silent for a few seconds before saying, “You should ride after Athos and Porthos to let them know. This information needs to reach the King as quickly as possible.”

 

The Gascon’s face fell as he protested, “Aramis, I can’t leave you here by yourself.”

 

“Nonsense,” Aramis countered. “I’m feeling much better and can manage my own care at this point. Besides, the sooner you go, the sooner we can be on our way home.”

 

d’Artagnan worried his bottom lip as he observed his friend. In truth, Aramis looked far better than he had after he’d been initially injured, and he was moving around fairly well as long as he was careful. He still tired easily but that was nothing that some more good food and rest wouldn’t address. If he left now, he could reach Turin by evening, locate their friends and be back in the small village the following night. The idea of having the four of them together was incredibly alluring and Aramis gave him a small smile as though reading his thoughts. “Alright,” the Gascon agreed, slowly. “If you’re sure.” There was a hint of a question in his tone and the marksman gave a nod in reply.

 

“I’ll be fine, d’Artagnan. Besides, it’s only two days; what can possibly happen in two days?” Aramis asked.

 

d’Artagnan winced a moment before he replied, “Plenty if our past history is anything to go by.”

 

Aramis’ grin only widened as he clapped the young man on the back, guiding him to the door, “You worry too much. Let’s go get your things ready so you can be on your way.”

* * *

It hadn’t taken long for d’Artagnan to be off, needing only to gather a few additional provisions, get his horse ready, and secure his weapons and supplies. Aramis had been careful not to overexert himself, knowing that the Gascon’s careful eyes were watching him and looking for any signs that he could not be left alone. They’d embraced briefly and then the young man had departed, eager to locate their two friends and share with them the news he’d discovered.

 

Aramis was beginning to feel tired but was not quite ready to return to the room. Instead, he decided to take a short walk around the small village, unwittingly finding himself at the front steps of the church. As he looked up at the cross that towered over the entrance, a ghost of a smile appeared on his face and he slowly ascended the four stairs to the doors, passing through to step inside. His body moved through the well-practiced motions as he genuflected and proceeded to the front of the church, finding himself in a well-worn pew, his hands ghosting over the rosary that hung around his neck as prayers fell from his lips. The act of prayer was comforting, as it had been from his earliest days, offering him a counterpoint to the violence that consumed other parts of his life, rebalancing and centering him in a way that nothing else could.  

 

When he was engaged in prayer, time lost all meaning and the aches of his body fell away, providing a welcome respite from the last few days, releasing some of the tension he’d been unknowingly carrying. So absorbed was he that he failed to notice the entrance of two others. He was unaware of their presence when they took seats two rows behind him; he had no idea that he’d garnered their attention as the Spanish words flowed unerringly from his mouth, the soft, lilting cadence soothing his soul and reenergizing his spirit. Worst of all, he missed the angry looks the two newcomers shared before hastily exiting, Aramis only becoming aware that someone else had been present when he heard the doors close once more on the empty church. Even then, the sound garnered little more than a quick look around him, confirming the emptiness of the building before he returned to complete his prayers.

 

Preparing to rise to his feet, he could hear the sounds of people approaching behind him, but felt confident in the safety of the church. As such, he was caught completely by surprise when rough hands gripped him tightly by the arm, yanking him to his feet and pulling a cry of pain from his lips as the treatment jarred his tender shoulder. The two burly men who held him bustled him swiftly to the back of the church, Aramis looking between them in confusion as he tried to halt their movement. As he drew breath to protest, beginning to dig his heels in to stop, one of his captors planted a meaty fist into his stomach, folding him almost in half with the force of the blow.

 

Whatever breath Aramis had possessed left him in a quick whoosh of expelled air, leaving him hanging by his arms and unable to resist as the two men hauled him outside and around to a small set of stairs that led downwards. Before he knew it, the door at the bottom of the steps had been pushed open and he was flung inside, having no opportunity to prepare or brace himself for the fall. He landed badly on his sore shoulder and couldn’t help the yelp in response to the agony that spiked from his half-healed wound. As he lay on the ground, eyes tightly closed and trying to breathe through the pain, one of the men stepped forward to plant a boot in his side, causing the marksman to groan and curl up to protect his midsection. He heard a short bark of laughter and then the men were gone, disappearing back through the narrow doorway, sealing the exit behind them.

 

Aramis lay still for several long seconds, trying to manage the pain and summon enough energy and motivation to move. When the ache in his shoulder had dulled a bit, he opened his eyes, blinking several times as he adjusted to the dim light. From what he could see, he’d been thrown into the small cellar underneath the church, the space barely ten-feet square with nothing but packed dirt on the floor. As Aramis rolled slowly onto his back, allowing him a better view of the space, he could see that the door was the only way in or out and his only source of light came from a lantern that hung on the back wall. While the cellar may have been functional at some point, it was now completely bare, with not even shelving or an errant hook left behind. Gathering himself, Aramis rolled onto his uninjured side and pushed to a seated position before rising shakily to his feet, his ribs and abdomen protesting against the harsh treatment he’d received. Three steps brought him to the door and moments later he’d confirmed that it was tightly bolted from the outside, the wood heavy enough to withstand his attempts to escape.

 

Scrubbing a hand through his matted curls, he sighed, breaking off abruptly when the action pulled on his sore midsection. He had nothing with which to open the door, even his weapons still sitting in the room they’d rented since he hadn’t expected trouble; worse yet, no one would miss him for at least two days until his friends arrived. Until his captors or his brothers returned, it seemed he would have no choice but to languish in the cellar, left to wonder why he’d been imprisoned in the first place. 

* * *

Despite his discomfort, Aramis had dozed off, the dim light and lack of anything to do in the cellar leaving him sitting on the ground, bored, with his back propped against one wall. He was roused from his sleep by the reappearance of the same two men as before and he struggled to his feet, determined that he would not be such easy prey a second time. With his back to one corner, he observed the men warily as they approached, noting the thick rope that one of them held. Holding his hands up in an effort to get them to pause, he asked, “What’s going on here? What reason do you have for holding me against my will?”

 

The taller of the two men replied with a look of disgust on his face, “Like you don’t know.”

 

“No,” Aramis tried again, keeping his voice calm and even. “I don’t know, but I’d like to. Perhaps we can go upstairs and talk about whatever you think I’ve done.”

 

“We’re going up, alright, but there won’t be much talkin’,” the second man jeered, beginning to uncoil the rough rope in his hands.

 

Aramis’ eyes danced between the men, the two staying far enough apart from each other that it would be difficult to take them both on at once. “Listen, at least tell me what you think I’ve done. Surely, that’s the least I deserve.”

 

“You’ll be gettin’ what you deserve shortly,” the first man sneered and the two moved in tandem, stepping forward quickly to grab his arms.

 

The marksman wasn’t in good enough shape to defeat them, but he managed to lash out with his uninjured arm, even as his wounded shoulder was yanked, causing him to follow it but not before landing a satisfying punch to his assailant’s nose. The injured man immediately released his arm and Aramis tried to turn so he could bring it to bear on his second captor but the man had been too quick, driving his fist into the Spaniard’s lower back, dropping him immediately to his knees. The fight was all but over at that point, the man with the rope coming forward and tying his hands, driving another blow into the marksman’s side for good measure. The two men hauled Aramis to his feet and pushed him out and back up the stairs, leading him to a post that had been placed into the centre of the yard at the back of the church.

 

As they got closer to their destination, Aramis gathered his strength, and rammed his good shoulder into the man on his left, making the man stumble and giving him a moment of freedom until his captor on the right shoved him forward, causing the medic to plow head first into the wooden beam. The impact caused Aramis’ head to spin and he found himself once more on his knees, the world graying dizzily around him. Before his head could clear, he was dragged to his feet and placed so he was facing the pole, his arms pulled upwards and the rope that held him tied to a hook near the top. The position forced him to stand, pulling abominably at his injured shoulder, the pressure of his raised arms causing tendrils of pain to dance through the wound.

 

"Please," he spoke, his forehead leaning against the beam as he tried to clear his fuzzy vision, “what is it that you think I’ve done?”

 

“You, Spanish, think you can just waltz into Savoy and take anything you want,” one of the men hissed, getting close enough to Aramis’ face that he could smell the man’s putrid breath. “My sister’s farm was one of the ones you attacked. There was no reason to set fire to it once you’d stolen everything of value.” The man’s voice lowered dangerously as he promised, “But don’t worry, we’re great believers in justice here and you’ll get what you deserve.”

 

“No,” Aramis was shaking his head, “you’re mistaken. I’m not Spanish, I’m French.”

 

The man leaned closer, grabbing the marksman’s hair as he pulled his head back, “We’re not stupid. Your kind have been sniffin’ around our borders for years. Besides, we heard you prayin’ in the church so you can’t deny it. Filthy Spanish!” As the man released him, he knocked Aramis’ head forward into the wood, causing the medic to flinch at the sting.

 

The two stalked off, satisfied that they were playing their part in bringing a criminal to justice, leaving Aramis breathing heavily, eyes closed as he waited for the world to stop tilting around him. The men clearly believed that he was part of the gang who had been raiding the area; the same group that d’Artagnan had just heard about and who’d been posing as Spanish. Never had he hidden his heritage nor given a second thought to speaking his mother’s native language, but now he wished he had never been attracted to the idyllic-looking church. If his friends didn’t return soon, it could be his final, lethal regret.  


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis’ stomach clenched painfully once more, forcing him to dry heave helplessly against the post, his head sagging to his chest when he’d finished as he contemplated the horrible fate that awaited him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone whose continuing to read, comment and leave kudos on this story. Hope you enjoy this next part!

As the day wore on and morning shifted to afternoon, the sun’s brightness was slowly hidden, clouds moving in to take its place. Aramis was grateful for the reprieve, having sweated through the initial heat of the day, his location offering no shade and no respite from the sun’s rays. Now, as the clouds above him gathered, he spared a glance upwards and realized he might soon have the opposite problem to contend with. The sky had darkened and the clouds look heavy with rain, promising him a wet and decidedly cool future as the temperature dropped and the wind picked up.

 

Aramis closed his eyes as he again rested his forehead on the wooden pole that held him. He’d tried for a time to free himself, tugging at the rope and hook that held his arms in place, but all he’d managed was to rub the skin on his wrists raw. His arms had long ago turned numb, the lack of sensation, sadly, not extending to the throbbing wound in his shoulder. His torso ached from being in the same position for so long and from the blows he’d received earlier from the two men. He wondered if they’d spoken the truth and if one of their families had actually suffered at the hands of the bandits, or whether his presence was simply an opportunity of convenience, the two accusing him to further throw suspicion off the real thieves.

 

The first drops of rain fell and Aramis tipped his head up and opened his mouth, relishing the moisture after having gone for too many hours without anything to drink. At first, the cool water on his overheated skin was like a balm, helping to soothe his sore spots where he knew bruises blossomed underneath his clothes; but, as the rain and wind both picked up, his clothing became sodden, the cool fabric prickling against his skin as he shivered with cold. The rain continued as the sun set, the transition from day into night difficult to discern given the darkened sky and heavy downpour. It was unlikely, Aramis mused, that anyone would venture out into the deluge to check on him, and he resigned himself to a frigid, uncomfortable night spent under the stars, which might still be better than whatever his captors had planned for him next.

* * *

d’Artagnan had ridden as quickly as he dared, not wanting to overly tire his horse but driven by a strong need to find his friends and return to Aramis’ side. He was unhappy about leaving the marksman behind, despite the fact that he understood the wisdom of the man’s suggestion; as he approached Turin, he hoped that Athos and Porthos felt the same. The city was a fairly large one, although not nearly as expansive or impressive as Paris. As such, it presented d’Artagnan with a conundrum since his friends were not here as Musketeers and might be difficult to locate as a result.

 

Diligently, the Gascon began working his way through the first taverns and inns he came across, praying that he would get lucky and find the men without too much difficulty. As fate would have it, good fortune smiled on him when he spotted the men in the fourth tavern he entered, the two friends seated across the room from the entrance with a bottle of wine between them. Trying and failing to supress a grin, d’Artagnan wove his way through the other patrons, managing to get within a few feet of their table before Porthos noticed him. “d’Artagnan,” the large man boomed, a wide grin on his face which began to falter a few moments later as he processed the young man’s presence. “Everythin’ alright?” he asked, pushing a chair toward the Gascon with his foot and encouraging the young man to sit down.

 

“Everything’s fine, Porthos,” he assured, turning next to nod at Athos in greeting, the older man’s lips quirking into a smile. “I have news,” d’Artagnan announced proudly, taking a quick look around before looking at the two men, Athos already beginning to rise.

 

“Not here,” the older Musketeer stated, grasping the Gascon’s arm to lead him back outside, Porthos following in their wake.

 

Once they were several streets away from the tavern, d’Artagnan drew breath to speak but a head shake from Athos had him falling silent once more as they walked three abreast and made their way back to one of the first inns the Gascon had stopped at. Wordlessly, Athos led the way inside and to a room on the second floor, waiting for both men to follow him inside before firmly closing and bolting the door.

 

Porthos and d’Artagnan were already seated at the room’s small table and Athos now joined them as he asked, “Alright, what’s so important that you left Aramis behind while wounded?”

 

The young man winced at Athos’ words, the tone and accompanying hard look letting the Gascon know of the older man’s disapproval. Steeling himself, d’Artagnan explained what he’d overheard and how Aramis had urged him to come to Turin to find the two men. When he’d finished, Athos and Porthos sat quietly, contemplating what they’d been told. Finally, Porthos broke the silence, “Sounds plausible, and we haven’t found out anything different during the time we’ve been here.”

 

Athos gave a slow, thoughtful nod, “Agreed. We’ll head back tomorrow to collect Aramis and make our way back to Paris.” Turning his attention to the Gascon, he questioned, “How is Aramis?”

 

d’Artagnan nodded enthusiastically, happy to be able to give a positive report regarding the marksman’s health, “He’s doing really well. There’s no infection and he’s able to get out of bed and move around on his own. He still tires easily but expects to be fit enough to manage the ride home once we’ve returned.”

 

The Gascon could see the strain around Porthos’ eyes ease at the news and even Athos’ expression softened with relief. The larger man exhaled slowly as he said, “That’s really good to hear.” d’Artagnan couldn’t help but smile in reply at the knowledge that he’d managed to soothe both men’s worries. Porthos reached forward and clapped the young man on the arm as he asked, “Hungry?”

 

d’Artagnan nodded as he thought back to his hurried trip and the small amount of food he’d eaten while in the saddle, “Famished, actually.” The two older men traded looks as they rose, “Come on, then. You’re skinny enough as it is,” Porthos teased as he pulled the Gascon from his seat and guided him back through the door of the room. d’Artagnan went along willingly, the promise of food a powerful lure, but nowhere near that of being back in his friends’ company. 

* * *

He had no idea how he’d managed it, but Aramis had slept intermittently throughout the long, cold night, his body eventually succumbing to an overwhelming exhaustion that had his eyes closing despite the position he’d been placed in. The rain had finally stopped partway through the night but the cool temperatures and accompanying breeze had easily cut through his wet clothes to run icy fingers along his skin, leaving him shivering miserably the entire time. When the first weak rays of dawn appeared, Aramis could not help but wish for the sun’s warm caress to bring some relief from the bone deep cold that now gripped him and made his entire body ache.

 

In his waking moments, his thoughts had drifted to his brothers and he’d prayed for their safe and swift return, understanding that he would not be able to free himself without help. He fully expected them to arrive that night, assuming that they hadn’t encountered any complications, and his stomach lurched unhappily at the idea that the men might have found trouble. The thought had him reconsidering his position, knowing that he would have to try and escape if the opportunity presented itself, unable to rely solely on his friends’ assistance to save him.

 

As the dark blues and grays of night shifted into the pinks and yellows of dawn, finally blending into the full, vivid colors of daytime, Aramis was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of voices. He listened as they grew louder, lifting his head from the post where it rested and blinking heavily to focus on the approaching crowd; it seemed that the two men had brought their friends. The majority of those approaching stopped when they were about 10 feet away, while one man separated himself from the rest of the group and stepped forward a couple of steps, looking momentarily toward Aramis before turning his back to the marksman in order to address those assembled.

 

“My fellow citizens, it pains me to shoulder the burden of this responsibility, but my position as your spiritual leader forces me to be the one to dole out the punishment to this man,” he threw a look over his shoulder at the Spaniard, “for his crimes against our community.”

 

Aramis had been listening intently to the man's words, surprised to hear that he was the priest responsible for the church he’d visited; with that knowledge, his incarceration, both in the church’s cellar and then in the yard, suddenly made far more sense. Having once considered the priesthood as a possible path himself, the marksman was appalled that a man of God would not only condone what had been done to him, but actively participated in seeking retribution for his supposed crimes. Swallowing to find some moisture to speak, Aramis cleared his throat before he said, “Father, surely I’m entitled to a trial and the opportunity to defend myself. You speak as though my guilt were already decided.”

 

The priest looked briefly to the side, not even acknowledging Aramis’ words. At the motion, a man who the marksman hadn’t noticed, closed the space between them and struck the Musketeer across the back. The sharpness of the surprising blow took Aramis’ breath away for several seconds and led him to conclude that the man must have hit him something more substantial than his fist. Drawing a shuddering breath, he straightened, taking the pressure off his ravaged wrists as he tried again to reason with the townspeople. “Listen to me,” he tried to make eye contact with some of those gathered, hoping his appeal would not fall on deaf ears. “Whatever you’ve been told is false. I have nothing to do with the attacks taking place in Savoy.”

 

One of the men who’d helped to subdue him and keep him locked up stepped forward to speak, “Don’t listen to him. Robert and I heard him prayin’ in Spanish, clear as day.”

 

The priest called over his shoulder to the Musketeer, “Do you deny this?”

 

“My mother was Spanish but I am French,” Aramis began before the man standing slightly to his side raised his thick wooden club and brought it down on the marksman’s shoulders again. He gasped in agony as the force of the blow made his knees weak and he found himself once more all but hanging from his wrists, his wounded shoulder ablaze with the sudden weight. Struggling against the pain, Aramis forced his knees to lock, his breaths coming in rapid pants as he attempted to overcome the multiple aches assaulting his battered body.

 

“We have no interest in hearing more of your Spanish lies,” the priest stated, his tone righteous and indignant. “You will have the day to contemplate your sins and pray for forgiveness. At sunset, you will die.”

 

At the man’s proclamation, Aramis protested, “Just listen to me and give me a chance to explain.” His words were cut off as his tormentor applied the thick wooden stick to his back once more, landing blows to his upper and lower back, right flank and finally the back of his knees, leaving him dangling from his wrists again, rivulets of fresh blood trickling down his arms from the shredded skin. As he hung there, trying to gather enough energy to stand, the crowd dispersed and the priest strode forward, leaning closely to hiss in Aramis’ ear, “Perhaps the pain will help you repent before you face God’s ultimate punishment tonight.”

 

The marksman would have replied, having much to say about the priest’s twisted interpretation of God’s will, but his breaths sawed in and out of his chest harshly with the throbbing of his body, and he closed his eyes instead, searching for the strength to get his feet underneath him. When he’d finally managed it, he leaned against the pole for several long minutes, willfully slowing his breathing to try and lessen the pain. His wrists had stopped bleeding but he could feel a patch of warmth at his shoulder and knew that the wound had reopened. His back and sides ached from the repeated blows he’d received, both yesterday and today, and he was having a hard time remembering when he’d last felt so miserable.

 

The priest’s announcement of his pending execution had not been a great surprise, not once he’d seen the venom in the eyes of those gathered, but he’d hoped to be able to appeal to some aspect of their humanity, receiving at the very least a chance to say his peace. As it was, his friends would be hard-pressed to arrive in time and even the simplest of delays would have them recovering his dead body rather than rescuing his somewhat battered one. In defiance of the townspeople’s ignorance, Aramis began to pray in Spanish, asking God to give his brothers a clear road and swift horses so they might return to his side before time ran out.

* * *

His next moments of awareness made him realize that he’d fallen asleep again or, more accurately, his brain supplied, that he’d passed out; whether his unconsciousness was caused by blood loss or simply the accumulation of two days’ worth of injuries, inflicted upon him by his ill-informed captors, he didn’t know. When his eyes opened, he was surprised by the sun’s position, suggesting that he’d lost several hours, a fact that frightened him but not as much as the other sight that greeted his bleary vision. All around him were bundles of wood, and the implication of their placement shocked him awake faster than anything else could have. The townspeople meant to _burn_ him.

 

When the priest had pronounced his sentence, Aramis had assumed death by hanging, or possibly even a small firing squad; the idea of being burned alive had not even entered his mind. He’d seen men suffer burns in the past, the relenting pain that consumed them lasting far beyond the initial touch of the flame that had caused the wound in the first place. He could recall the cloying smell of the tortured flesh and found himself suddenly gagging even though there was nothing in his belly to bring up.

 

Out of the many ways to kill a man, fire was one of the cruelest, extending the victim’s exquisite agony into long minutes while skin and muscle melted from the intense heat. Aramis’ stomach clenched painfully once more, forcing him to dry heave helplessly against the post, his head sagging to his chest when he’d finished as he contemplated the horrible fate that awaited him. “Please, brothers, save me from this,” he prayed, clenching his eyes tightly against the moisture that pooled, a solitary tear escaping to trace a track through the dirt along the side of his face before pausing at the edge of his jaw and then dropping to be lost in the scrub at his feet.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the flames advanced up the side of his leg, consciousness fled and Aramis welcomed the darkness, thanking God in his last moments that he would not know the feel of the fire’s deathly touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the lovely reactions to poor Aramis' situation in the last chapter and sorry for the evil cliffhanger. Hope you enjoy this next part.

The three friends had eaten and drunk their fill the previous night, d’Artagnan soaking in the two men’s presence after too many days apart. He knew that Aramis would be feeling their absence just as keenly, and the three of them were up early by unspoken agreement, wanting to be on the road as quickly as possible so they could be reunited with their fourth. The Gascon knew that the marksman would be fine and, if anything, bored at having had to spend two days in his own company, but physically it would have done him well. By the time they returned, the four would be able to share a meal in celebration of a nearly complete mission, the only thing remaining being their journey home to share the information they carried with the Captain and, through him, with the King.

 

They kept their pace consistent throughout the day, interspersing segments of cantering with those of walking, making it easy for both man and beast to manage the energy needed for the day’s ride. They made good time and were in high spirits when they approached the village at sunset. Athos stared curiously at the haziness that seemed to be blotting out the last of the sun’s rays and he traded a concerned look with Porthos who wore a matching expression. Noticing the silent communication between the two, d’Artagnan asked, “What? Is something wrong?”

 

Athos was quiet, simply urging his horse to go faster while Porthos replied and did the same, “Not sure yet; come on.” d’Artagnan followed their lead, kicking his heels into his horse’s flanks in order to catch up to the two. “Smoke,” Porthos announced as they neared the centre of the small village, slowing down as both men cast their eyes around for the source of the dark, billowing clouds. The Gascon did the same, bringing his horse to a stop as he searched for the fire, noting absently how deserted the place suddenly seemed.

 

“The church,” Athos’ clipped words announced and the three nudged their horses into motion, rounding the small building and approaching from the back to find a scene from their worst nightmares. At the back of the church, surrounded by likely everyone who lived both in and around the small town, was a wooden beam, lodged firmly in the ground and encircled by a pile of blazing wood. But the worst part was the man tied to the pole, his arms pulled high above his head and his body leaning against the beam as though trying to escape the flames that licked at his legs. The three would recognize Aramis’ handsome features and unruly curls anywhere and the sight of their friend bound and helpless pulled a growl of fury from Porthos’ throat as he guided his horse into the crowd of people, intentionally pushing them aside with the animal’s broad chest.

 

Trusting that Athos and d'Artagnan would watch his back, Porthos threw himself from his saddle, searching frantically for something that could be used to part the blazing barrier that separated him from his friend. “Aramis,” he called, needing the man to know that help had arrived. “Hang on, we’ll have you out of there shortly.”

 

The marksman had closed his eyes against the fires that had been lit, the flames lapping at his feet within minutes. He’d tried once more to reason with the men as they’d touched torches to the dry tinder around him, but his pleas had fallen on uncaring ears. Terrified of the first feel of the hungry fire, Aramis had begun to pray, the Spanish words flowing from his mouth without remorse now that he’d been unable to convince the townspeople of his innocence. The voice that called to him was nearly lost in the loud crackling of the wood as flames greedily consumed it, and he almost didn’t open his eyes, too afraid to find that he’d only been imagining it. When he prised open his lids, he had to blink several times against the sting of the smoke that nearly obscured his vision, the dark haze making his eyes water, further blurring his sight.

 

When he could finally see somewhat clearly, he could make out the unmistakable shape of Porthos, holding something in his hands that he was using to pull apart the burning barricade around him. The hope that the sight inspired was intoxicating and heady, making him lightheaded, causing his vision to swim once more. “Porthos,” he breathed out, choking as the noxious fumes entered his throat, causing him to cough and pull more of the smoke into his lungs, making them spasm painfully.

 

Time seemed to skip then as his eyes slipped closed, comforted by the knowledge that even if he could not be saved, he at least would not die alone. He continued coughing weakly as the air around him all but disappeared, sweat running in rivulets down his neck and back from the heat that encompassed him. Aramis was barely aware when the first ravenous spark touched his breeches, sizzling momentarily before bursting into flame as it devoured the dry fabric. His mind was clouded and his lungs felt heavy, each breath a fight against the furnace in which he was encased, making each inhale harder than the last and providing progressively less life-giving oxygen. As the flames advanced up the side of his leg, consciousness fled and Aramis welcomed the darkness, thanking God in his last moments that he would not know the feel of the fire’s deathly touch. 

* * *

Porthos had attacked the fire surrounding Aramis like a man possessed, knowing that they had little time to save the man before he succumbed to the intensity of the flames and heat around him. He was idly aware of the fact that the townspeople were trying to stop his actions, Athos and d’Artagnan having moved into position at his back, their pistols and swords drawn, creating a dangerous standoff that would most likely end with at least some of villagers’ deaths. While he wanted to help them, his most pressing need was to get to Aramis’ side so he could free the marksman and spirit him away to safety.

 

He’d managed to prise a shovel out of an onlooker’s hands, the man obviously intending to use it as a weapon which Porthos was happy to relieve him of. He now used the tool to attack the burning wall that separated him from his friend, alternately pushing and swiping the wood and branches out of the way. Aramis had looked up momentarily when he’d called to him, and Porthos’ heart had leapt at the knowledge that his friend was still alive. Seconds later the marksman had tried to reply but had been racked with such a coughing fit that the large man wondered if Aramis was pulling any air into his lungs at all. Porthos’ heart lurched once more, this time in fear as he swatted away the last section of burning timbre that prevented him from advancing and he saw the flames that were spreading along the side of his friend’s leg.

 

Throwing the shovel to one side, he gulped a large breath before racing forward, his left hand already reaching for the main gauche holstered at his back. He beat against the flames on Aramis’ breeches, extinguishing them before straightening at the man’s side. “Aramis,” he spoke closely to his friend’s ear, a hand cupping his cheek in worry. There was no response and no time, the roar of the fire signalling its relentless advance. With one arm around Aramis’ waist, Porthos reached upwards with his dagger, the sharp blade slicing swiftly through the rope that attached his friend to the wooden pole. Aramis was already collapsing and the large Musketeer turned him deftly, managing to duck his shoulder underneath the marksman’s stomach before rising again and lifting the man off his feet.

 

He wasted no time in turning away from the spot where Aramis had nearly lost his life and ran back through the gap he’d created earlier, stopping just behind Athos and d’Artagnan who were still keeping the angry onlookers at bay. “Time to go,” Porthos hissed, his eyes darting among the people gathered, wary of anyone who threatened to advance against them.

 

Athos gave a curt nod, his attention never wavering from the crowd, “We can’t stay here.”

 

Porthos grunted in reply, having already reached the same conclusion about the village. “We make for the stables and at least get his horse. No way I’m leaving it behind with these…heathens.” His voice dripped with disgust at the fact that the people before him had attempted to kill his brother.

 

“Not an entirely accurate statement but I agree with the sentiment,” Athos stated dryly.

 

“Yeah, hard to believe that people who follow God would condone this,” d’Artagnan added.

 

Athos raised his voice so he could be heard above the burning of wood behind him, infusing his words with every ounce of his noble upbringing as he announced, “We will be leaving now and you will allow us to go. Any interference will be met with deadly force.” He met the eyes of several of the townspeople, holding the gaze of the priest for several long seconds as the man seemed ready to speak and then reconsidered, breaking eye contact first. The older Musketeer gave a nod that had Porthos moving, Athos and d’Artagnan falling in behind to cover his retreat and gather the horses.

 

They ended up laying Aramis down for several minutes in the stable, Porthos hovering over him protectively while Athos prepared the marksman’s mount. d’Artagnan had sprinted back to their former room at the tavern and collected Aramis’ belongings, loathe to leave the man’s weapons behind for the townspeople to sell or claim as their own. Within minutes they were mounted and riding away, the medic’s fresh horse holding both him and Porthos while the larger man’s steed went riderless. For a half hour they rode in silence, Porthos and Aramis in the lead, while Athos and d’Artagnan protected their rear from attack. When no one appeared, the pulled abreast of the larger man, Aramis slumped against Porthos’ chest, still unconscious.

 

With a look towards their injured comrade, the Gascon asked, “Where will we go?”

 

Athos seemed hesitant to answer, knowing that the best strategy would be to travel until they’d left Savoy, but recognizing that the smartest course of action would also require Aramis to go without proper treatment and rest for another day until they’d crossed back into France. Porthos sensed his friend’s hesitation and spoke on his behalf, taking the difficult decision away from him. “We ride for France. We’re not safe until we can at least put our uniforms back on and we can’t do that in Savoy.” He noticed the fearful glance that d’Artagnan stole at Aramis and he softened his tone as he said, “We’ll ride another hour until we’re far enough away to stop for a bit. Then we’ll do what we can for Aramis and ride on to the border.”

 

The Gascon was obviously uncertain but Athos was already nodding in agreement, which had d’Artagnan holding his tongue. As Porthos promised, they rode for another hour, Aramis finally beginning to show signs of waking as they were pulling to a stop. Athos and d’Artagnan dismounted first, positioning themselves to catch Aramis as Porthos lowered him down. The marksman groaned as he was jostled and the two men carried their precious burden several feet away to the shade of a tall tree, letting their friend lean against its thick trunk. Athos kept a hand on Aramis’ arm to keep him from sliding sideways, while d’Artagnan hurried back to their horses to collect the saddlebag that contained their medical supplies.

 

By the time the Gascon returned, Porthos was crouched on Aramis’ other side and the two men were coaxing him to wake. When he opened his eyes, the marksman’s face immediately screwed up in pain and his hand reached for left leg, abruptly halting the motion as it pulled on his overstrained shoulder muscles. His eyes closed again as he moaned lowly, his body’s various aches and pains now screaming loudly, making him wish for the blessed relief of unconsciousness.

 

“Shh, none of that now,” Porthos was soothing him. “I know it hurts but we’ll get you sorted out soon enough.”

 

Aramis could feel a warm hand on his cheek, which he identified as Porthos’; another gripped his right arm and a third comfortingly squeezed his ankle. Despite the pain, the safety of being surrounded by his brothers brought a ghost of a smile to his lips.

 

“Not one of your brightest smiles, but perfectly satisfactory given the circumstances,” Athos commented, the low timbre of his voice rolling over the marksman.

 

Aramis forced his eyes to open, confirming what he’d already suspected regarding each man’s placement and he admitted, “Wasn’t sure you’d make it in time.” His voice was hoarse with the smoke he’d inhaled and he began to cough weakly as soon as the words had left his mouth. In an instant, d’Artagnan was passing the water skin to Porthos who tipped it to their friend’s lips, allowing several swallows before pulling it away. “Thirsty,” Aramis protested, which only made Porthos grin.

 

“I know, but let’s go slow, alright?” the larger man suggested patiently, as he handed the skin back to the Gascon’s waiting hands. “Can you tell us what hurts?”

 

Aramis grimaced as he considered all the places that pained him. “Shorter list if I tell you what doesn’t,” he countered with a quiet laugh that morphed quickly into more coughing.

 

Porthos traded worried looks with Athos and d’Artagnan at the comment, but he kept his tone even as he said, “Let’s start with what we already know. Your breeches were on fire by the time I got to you so we’ll check your leg for burns, and I’m guessing the position they had you in didn’t do your shoulder wound any favors, so we’ll look at that next. Anything else we should know?”

 

Aramis thought about the question for several moments before he gave a one-sided shrug, “Probably lots of bruises.”

 

The three men’s faces clouded at the marksman’s reply but they kept hold of their tempers, knowing that it would do no good to get angry now when their friend needed them. Working together under Porthos’ direction, the hole in Aramis’ breeches was widened, exposing the burned skin on the man’s lower thigh which d’Artagnan gently washed and wrapped in clean linen. Athos and Porthos got the marksman out of his doublet to find the torn stitches on Aramis’ shoulder, covered by a bandage that was dirty with a mix of dried and fresh blood. The older man painstakingly removed and then redid the sutures after Porthos cleaned the wound.

 

Aramis had been correct about the bruising and an impressive array of colors covered the majority of his back and flanks. A quick and careful check by Porthos showed no broken ribs, although the marksman would be in a great deal of pain until the bruises began to fade. Before they packed up the medical supplies, both of Aramis’ wrists were tenderly cleaned and wrapped, the torn skin there a terrible reminder of how close they’d come to losing the man. By the time they were finished, Aramis was almost asleep, the exhaustion of the previous night along with the suffering he’d endured catching up to him and making his lids heavy. “Come on ‘Mis,” Porthos cajoled fondly, helping the man to his feet. “Once you’re on the horse, you can sleep and I even promise I won’t let you fall.”

 

Aramis grinned at him sleepily as he was manhandled into the saddle, waiting until Porthos sat behind him and he was able to lean back against his friend’s broad chest. As the large man wrapped his arms around his friend, Aramis finally replied, he voice quiet but certain as he said, “You’d never let me fall.” The low rumbling of Porthos’ laughter soothed him to sleep and he lost several hours to Morpheus as they travelled on toward home.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the night wore on and the candles burned low, Aramis found himself mesmerized by the yellow flame, recalling how loudly the fire had burned and how close he’d come to losing his life.

They ended up stopping partway through the night, their horses weary from a full day of travel and the men themselves ready to fall off the beasts if they didn’t rest soon. Despite their exhaustion, they took turns keeping watch and were on the road again with the first streaks of dawn, needing to be back in friendly territory as quickly as possible. They crossed the border into France late in the afternoon, retrieving their uniforms from the corner of an abandoned barn where they’d hidden them nearly a week prior. They were still far from Paris and, while there was some urgency for them to return, they refused to make Aramis suffer any more than necessary by forcing him to travel while injured.

 

They pressed on that day, knowing that there was an inn nearby where they could tuck their friend into a proper bed and finally rid themselves of the smoke that clung to their clothes as a constant reminder of what they’d almost lost. After spending much of the night and a portion of the day dozing, Aramis was finally more aware but he paid for it dearly, the wounds he had aching fiercely with every movement of the horse beneath him. He’d tried to convince Porthos that he could ride on his own and the large man had hummed in agreement, not loosening his hold at all and calmly riding on, shifting from his position behind Aramis only when the two moved in tandem from one horse to another to give the animals a break from carrying their combined weights.

 

They were all relieved when they arrived at the inn Athos remembered, gratefully dismounting and handing their tired horses off to the stable boy. Athos grabbed his and Porthos’ belongings before leading the way inside, the large man assisting Aramis despite his protests that he was fine, while d’Artagnan took up the rear, carrying the remainder of their things. The innkeeper had offered them separate rooms, having a sufficient number free that they could all enjoy their own beds, but at the looks of hesitation on the men’s faces, he suggested a bigger family room instead, possessing two larger beds and seating for four. They accepted the room with gratitude, none of them willing to let the others out of their sight.

 

While Porthos got Aramis settled, helping him to remove his outer layers, Athos made arrangements with the innkeeper for food, drink, hot water and towels to be brought to their room. d’Artagnan, meanwhile, filled a bucket with fresh water from the well outside. A bath would have been ideal, allowing Aramis’ bruised and battered muscles to loosen from the heat of the water, but the burned patch on his thigh prevented it. Instead, Porthos and Athos helped Aramis refresh himself by using a mix of the hot and cool water to wipe, scrub and wash away the soot and smoke from his skin. It was an act that normally would have had the Spaniard flinching away in embarrassment, but he was simply too sore and weary to protest and appreciatively melted into their touches. While the two helped Aramis get clean, d’Artagnan applied himself to his friend’s leathers, diligently wiping them all down and making them shine, wanting to erase every reminder of what had happened.

 

Afterwards, they redressed Aramis’ various injuries, covering his burn in honey to soothe the skin and ward off infection, and rubbing a salve into his bruises to lessen their ache. Next, they enjoyed a hearty meal in their room, none of them ready to face the boisterous crowd of people likely to be present in the common room downstairs. When they’d finished, the men languished in various spots around the room, Athos and d’Artagnan in chairs next to the bed containing their friend, and Porthos seated at the table, a needle and thread in his hands as he worked to stitch the hole in Aramis’ breeches. A sense of calm had settled upon the four, helped along by full bellies and the sweet wine they now sipped, and Athos’ mind turned back to the situation they’d interrupted when they’d discovered Aramis’ precarious position at the centre of the fire. “Aramis, you’ve not yet told us how you came to almost be burned alive,” the older man began, his voice even but his eyes betraying how much the scene had affected him.

 

“Ah, yes,” Aramis gave a small nod, taking a drink of his wine to soothe his smoke-ravaged throat. “It was a case of mistaken identity.” He trailed off and his expression turned sad as he recalled how he’d been persecuted merely for praying in his mother’s native language. The three around him sat silently, knowing that there was more to the story and that the marksman would continue when he was ready. The quiet stretched for many long minutes before Aramis continued, “After d’Artagnan left, I ended up at the church.” His lips lifted slightly at the memory and he knew his friends would not be the least bit surprised that he’d gone to the house of worship. “I have no idea how long I spent there in prayer, but someone apparently overheard me.”

 

d’Artagnan looked confused as Aramis paused, not understanding the implication of his words. Seeing the young man’s expression, Porthos explained, “Aramis prays in Spanish.”

 

“Oh,” the Gascon breathed out, beginning to understand, seconds later repeating himself as full comprehension dawned. “Oh, the bandits were pretending to be Spanish.”

 

Aramis nodded, offering a rueful smile, “They wouldn’t give me a chance to explain and my efforts to do so were met with fists.”

 

d’Artagnan’s expression morphed into one of horror at the knowledge that his friend had been taken so soon after his departure. If he’d stayed, Aramis wouldn’t have gone into the church, and if he had, at least the young man would have been around to speak on his behalf, to save him. The Gascon’s lower lip trembled with a combination of remorse and anger at what the marksman had been forced to endure. His haunted eyes searched out Aramis’ as he said, “I’m sorry, this is all my fault.”

 

Aramis looked surprised as he met the young man’s gaze, “How can any of this be your fault? Did you tell me to go into that church? Were you the one who taught me my prayers? Perhaps, you were the one who lit the wood that surrounded me?” His face had turned hard as he recalled the flames licking hungrily as they reached for him and his voice got quieter. “The blame lies only with those who sought to execute an innocent man without benefit of proper evidence or a trial, and that is not you.”

 

“But I left you,” d’Artagnan countered.

 

“I told you to,” Aramis interjected. “Does that mean that I am at fault as well?”

 

“No,” the Gascon stammered.

 

Porthos rose from his spot, carrying the now repaired breeches which he laid across the foot of the bed before moving to stand next to the young man, placing a hand on his shoulder. “What Aramis is trying to say is, it’s not your fault. You had important information to share and, while we might not like it, our duty comes first. We woulda’ done the same thing if we’d been in your place.”

 

d’Artagnan swallowed, his eyes moving to Aramis who nodded and then to Athos who gave a small tilt of his head as well. Not trusting himself to speak, the young man gave a nod of understanding, still unhappy about what had happened, but more accepting of the role he’d played. One more question tugged at his mind though and he needed to give it voice, “Why death by burning?”

 

Aramis’ face shadowed as he considered his lap for a moment, before clearing his throat and answering in a small voice, “One of the men said his sister’s farm was burned. I expect they thought it to be poetic justice.” No one knew what to say in response to the man’s words.

 

Athos eventually broke the silence that had fallen once more as he pointed to the darkness outside the window, “It’s late and we all need our rest.” His gaze turned back to Aramis whose eyelids were drooping, his body reminding him that he was far from healthy. “Porthos, I assume you’ll be sharing with Aramis.” The large man only grinned in reply.

 

Athos rose and grabbed his chair, motioning to the Gascon to do the same so they could return both seats to their spot at the table where they would be out of the way. As d’Artagnan and Porthos prepared themselves for bed, the older man slipped back to the marksman’s side, having noticed earlier the creases of pain around the man’s eyes. Speaking softly, he asked, “How bad?”

 

Aramis tried to smile but failed as he whispered a reply, “Bad enough.”

 

Athos gave a dip of his head in understanding, brewing a tea with some of the herbs from the medic’s bag, and bringing it back to his friend’s side minutes later. Aramis took it gratefully, his hand trembling slightly with the pain that coursed through his body. The older man didn’t comment and simply waited at the man’s side, taking the cup when he’d finished and placing it on the small table next to the bed. He helped Aramis shift lower on the mattress, pulling the blanket up to his chest when he was comfortable, the medic flashing him another faint smile in thanks. Squeezing the marksman’s shoulder gently, Athos spoke softly, “Sleep well, brother.”

 

Aramis’ eyes were closed by the time Athos had crossed the room, and he and Porthos shared knowing looks as the large men proceeded to the bed and laid down next to his friend. d’Artagnan was already sitting on the edge of the bed that he and Athos would share, and he glanced in the other men’s direction as he asked quietly, “Will he be alright?”

 

Athos sat down heavily in the chair closest to the young man, scrubbing a hand across his face as he considered the horror of being burned alive. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible, “Fire is an exceptionally cruel way to die. I would not be surprised if this stayed with him – with all of us – for quite some time.” He reached over to the table, pulling a glass closer and filling it with wine, taking a long swallow. d’Artagnan waited for him to say more, but the older man stayed quiet, staring into the dark red liquid in his cup. When it became apparent that Athos was done speaking, the Gascon laid down, pulling the blanket up around his shoulders and closing his eyes, even though his mind was too busy for sleep.  

 

Athos’ prediction proved correct and the aftereffects of the mission had stayed with them, although surprisingly, it was not Aramis who woke shaking from nightmares, but the other three. Fortunately, it didn’t happen every night and, as the days passed, the frequency of their bad dreams eased as well. While his friends dealt with their demons, largely fueled by the guilt of not having been at the medic’s side, Aramis healed, the hole in his shoulder mending and the red of his burn fading.

 

It took them nearly two weeks to complete the return trip to Paris, only to find that their news had preceded them, the Duke of Savoy having sent word to the King to allay Louis’ fears and reconfirm their alliance. d’Artagnan had seemed ready to complain at the fact that their lives had been in peril needlessly, but Aramis had gripped his bicep, leading him from the Captain’s office without a word, understanding that this was simply the reality when one chose the life of a soldier. That night they gathered at Athos’ rooms, the mood still unusually sombre as they drank in mostly companionable silence; none of them felt much like talking, but neither were they ready to be alone, and being in each other’s presence brought them comfort. As the night wore on and the candles burned low, Aramis found himself mesmerized by the yellow flame, recalling how loudly the fire had burned and how close he’d come to losing his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who followed along with this story and for the lovely comments that people shared. As I finished this one, I realized that the tone at the end was a little more sombre than my past stories and this is because I have an idea for a sequel. The sequel won't be strictly Aramis-focused and this story will be used as a springboard for that one, even though both this one and the newest will be able to stand independently of one another. I'm in the process of finishing another long story that I started writing before Mistaken Identity so I plan to finish that one first and then start on the sequel, which will likely be ready to start posting around the end of July. Until then, enjoy the warmer summer weather.


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